The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown
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my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’m the bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!
I dart through the archway into my tiny lounge and slump down in the armchair. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNITONEPURLONEKNITONEPURLONE! And on it goes, faster and faster and faster and faster until the prancing reindeer tea cosy is finished in record-breaking time, and my hands have fused themselves into the shape of an ancient Chinese woman’s lotus feet.
I take Rudolph into the boxroom and place him on the bookshelf next to the others. Twenty-seven tea cosies in total. Not to mention all the other shelves housing the numerous bobble hats, cardies, scarves, mittens and jumpers. My boxroom is jam-packed with knitted goods. But what can I say? I’ve had a lot of dark thoughts, and all of the sad feels, recently …
I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.
‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.
Keep calm and carry yarn.
That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.
Of course, I didn’t mention the cock-up to end all cock-ups at work and that I’m actually running away because right now I just can’t deal with any more stress. Only for a long weekend, mind you, but enough time to give myself some space to figure out what to do and come up with a strategy. It’s a chance to breathe, and I don’t feel as if I’ve done that properly since the ‘wedding that never happened’. Besides, Mum will only panic about everyone finding out that I’m the bungling employee. Plus, I don’t want Sasha knowing. I feel so betrayed by her and the last thing I want is her knowing that I’ve messed up at work and could potentially lose my job too, in addition to the boyfriend that she stole from me. She’s always wanted what I’ve had; as children she’d want the toy that I’d been given, even though it was exactly the same as hers, and she’d make me swap. As we’ve got older, I’ve often felt that she thinks she’s better than me, more successful, just because she travels and has a full-on social life. It’s well known within the family that she thinks my job and passion for knitting and needlecraft is dull – ‘provincial’ is what she said on one of the rare occasion we were last all together – and I think she secretly feels the same way about our parents too, in their bungalow in the cul-de-sac in Staines – they and it are just not glamorous or exciting enough for Sasha.
Not that Mum and Dad are in constant communication with her; in fact, since May the fourth they’ve been extremely diplomatic and have kept her very much at arm’s length, which I guess is fairly easy given that Sasha spends most of her time gallivanting around, organising spectacular events for her fabulously famous and wealthy clients in places like Dubai, and not forgetting her annual charity event here in the UK – the Christmas hunt ball – because she likes to ‘give a little back’ as she says, to the horse community that helped launch her career. It’s how she came to be such a successful event planner in the first place: she started out by organising pony shows and polo parties for well-heeled people who recommended her to their even wealthier friends, who make up her glittering client portfolio. And now she’s being fabulous all over the place with my ex-fiancé in tow, no doubt. Well, good riddance to them, I rally, mustering up a modicum of resilience. I wonder if Sasha has discovered Luke’s penchant for farting under the duvet yet?
The Duck & Puddle number rings for what seems like an eternity before I hang up – I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s just after 7 p.m. – Cher is obviously busy and I imagine the bar area is noisy so maybe nobody can hear the phone. I try her mobile, but it doesn’t even ring, it goes straight through to the ‘person can’t take your call …’ message. Anyway, it’ll be fine; Cher said to visit, so it’ll be a nice surprise for her and I’ve already called work – well, luckily Gina’s mobile went straight to voice mail too, so I left a message to say that since I have a migraine coming on and quite possibly a temperature, but I haven’t actually confirmed this as I don’t have a thermometer (Gina can be very pedantic), it was looking highly unlikely that I’d make it into work tomorrow. Not strictly a lie, as I really do have a headache, an anxiety one, and I’m starting to sweat in this furry hood and bobble hat. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that right now I’m one very hot mess!
*
An hour later, the train to Tindledale is just about to depart – the last direct one, luckily, which arrives at 10.39 p.m. After that, you have to go to Market Briar, the nearest big town, and get a taxi or a lift on a tractor apparently, ‘so don’t be planning any big late nights out while you’re there’, is what the man in the ticket office chortled when I told him where we were heading.
Basil settles at my feet after giving up on trying to snuggle on the seat beside me. A guy in a black duffel coat and a grey beanie hat (definitely machine-knitted) is sitting by the window in the bank of seats adjacent to me, reading a newspaper; he looks up and gives me a courteous smile. I smile back and instantly notice his kind-looking emerald eyes behind black-framed glasses which accentuate the stubbly dark beard and curly hair peeping out from under the sides of his hat. This is only a recent thing, noticing men. After being in a relationship for five years with a man that I was certain I’d marry, it still feels weird looking at other guys in a snog/marry/avoid way, as Cher would say. I guess, it just isn’t something I’m used to; I really loved Luke, so it didn’t ever cross my mind to notice other men, and then, after everything that happened … well, let’s just say that it’s taking me time to reprogram my head to an ‘I’m single’ status.
‘Basil!’ I yell as he darts across the carriage and goes to swipe the guy’s Costa cake from a napkin on the table. I dive-bomb Basil just in time. ‘I’m so sorry, anyone would think he was starving, which he certainly isn’t,’ I say, grinning apologetically to the guy. I grab Basil’s collar and swiftly pull him back. Luckily, the guy laughs and shrugs it off, before moving the cake to a safer spot and lifting his newspaper back up.
A few minutes later, an older lady, sixty-something perhaps, arrives through the door of the adjoining carriage and sits opposite me.
‘Ah, he’s a fine-looking lad. What’s his name?’ she asks